


Swordplay

by Canaan



Series: How It Could Have Happened [19]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Missing Scene, implied previous non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2011-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-17 19:06:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canaan/pseuds/Canaan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slices of character through the last ten minutes of LotTL.  Sometimes, you have to open the wounds before they'll heal.  Angsty as hell, but is in fact h/c.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ace of Swords - Victory

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, here's the nutshell version: I broke Jack. When I tried to fix him, I discovered he and the tenth Doctor were thematically having a sword fight. Somehow, this has led to me writing the suit of swords, at least Ace through Seven. Anything with this many sharp edges is likely to cut you, and some of these vignettes purely on concepts.
> 
> Beta'd by aibhinn, of course, who's already pulled three or four swords out of her heart.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine, but I broke Jack so I had to try and fix him.

There's never a doubt in Jack's mind that the pair of guards who had their guns trained on him earlier will follow him now. He's watched the UNIT guards for a year. He's seen the men react to the new recruits, the thugs with guns who've found their true calling as the Master's enforcers. The real UNIT men fall into two categories: those who can abide these impostors and those who can't. Almost all of them have killed him at one point or another on the Master's orders, and he can't blame them. But he knows the second group will follow him to the ends of the Earth.

Psychology.

And in this case, the ends of the Earth doesn't quite get him to his goal. After all, it's bigger on the inside. As they contemplate the Toclafane-guarded TARDIS, one of the guards says, "We can't get in, we'll get slaughtered!"

Jack makes himself into the example they need. "Yeah. Happens to me a lot." As he charges into the room, the first spheres are already laying into him. He doesn't know if the guards are following. He kind of hopes not--it won't change anything. As he revivifies, he wonders again that they see this as courage from him, but he won't begrudge anyone their inspiration in a season of need.

When he makes it into the TARDIS, his heart aches for her, even as the paradox machine sickens him. With a silent apology, he levels his weapon and fires.


	2. Ace of Swords, Reversed - Devastation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by aibhinn. Disclaimer: Still not mine, and not making any money.

In all the universe, loss is the only constant. A timeline here, a companion there. A lover. A family. His principles. His species. His world. His self-respect.

He's just saved Francine the loss of something integral to herself, and in that moment's inattention, he's lost the only other Time Lord in existence. Oh, the rest of their race had tried to disavow them both more than once. It just hardly seemed to matter, now.

He's lost the only other person who remembered Gallifrey. A friend, once. An ally, sometimes. An adversary, often. A genius. A madman. The terrible ordered vision held up in horrifying contrast to his own reckless unfetteredness. The Time Lord who, with typical Time Lord arrogance, had made disposition of the human race as if they were chattel.

The Doctor sits on the floor, cradling so much meat in his arms, even as his joints ache with the phantom pain of aged limbs he no longer owns. Grief wrenches cries he doesn't recognize from his throat, even as he pities the battered and broken woman who put an end to the Master's madness. He feels the disgust and resentment of these brave souls he and Jack have tried to buoy and buffer for a year, but he can't explain himself to them and he can't release the corpse he's hugging to his chest.

The Master was right. He's won after all.


	3. Two of Swords - Alliance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the fabulous aibhinn.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine, but I broke Jack so I had to try and fix him.

Captain Jack Harkness was never on UNIT's list of favorite people. My superiors like him even less now that he's the only one left aboard the _Valiant_ who has a high-level security clearance and all his wits about him. He gives orders like a man who never dreams they won't be carried out and makes jokes like a post-watershed comedy act.

I have to work hard not to laugh at them. My CO looks at Harkness like he's disgusting and hauls me off to a smaller room to debrief. I remember that look. I used to wear it a lot. He's having trouble wrapping his brain around a year that didn't happen, and Harkness isn't helping his equilibrium. "A whole year, that nobody else has lived . . . And I’m supposed to make disposition of the lot of you. Half of you look shell-shocked and I have no record of some of these men ever having been _hired_ , let alone placed in positions of authority." Outside the door, Jack's laughter rings out. It almost sounds natural, and my CO slams his hand down on the small table between us. "And that _bloody Yank_ is running the show!"

I have to remind myself that I respect this man, and that he's a year out of circulation, from my point of view. "Sir," I say, calmly, "UNIT owes Captain Harkness the kind of favors you can't repay in three lifetimes."

For him, it hasn't been a year. He doesn't know he died in the first wave. From his point of view, I see him on a regular basis; and he respects my opinion enough to listen to me. Even if he doesn't like it. "Despite his reputation."

I can remember the disgust. I can remember feeling like, in some way, Harkness deserved what he was getting, because he was just so _wrong_. I can remember, and it makes me ashamed. "Captain Harkness revels in his reputation," I agree. "He's also the bravest man I've ever met."

My CO leans back in his chair and studies me. "I've had the briefing," he tells me, thoughtfully. "He's supposed to be the man who can't die. I'd think it's easy to be brave . . . when you can't die."

"He can die," I offer, grimly. I remember Harkness lying naked on the conference room floor in his own blood, nearly unmarked. He was shivering uncontrollably and dry retching at intervals. I remember thinking he was dying when I went off shift, and coming back on to find him stilly lying there, everyone forbidden to touch him. It took him twenty hours to die, and it wasn't the kind of noble death that kids with dreams of victory in their eyes sign up for. "Over and over again. Dying doesn't take courage, sir. We'll all do it, eventually." My CO's looking at me, waiting. "There are some fates that are worse than death, and I've watched Captain Harkness walk into them with his eyes open."

My CO sighs. "Leaving the irreverent Captain Harkness aside for the moment . . . what's going on with our personnel up here, Jeff? How do I sort the sheep from the goats?"

I laugh a little. There's a rumor about a pill that will make you forget . . . everything. The whole year. I wonder . . . would I want to forget? Would I trade away everything I've learned to be rid of all the horrible things I remember? "Easiest thing in the world," I say, "if you _don't_ leave aside Captain Harkness. Just ask each man how they feel about him. The ones who don't respect him . . . I wouldn't ever want to serve with again. It's been a hell of a year, sir, and after that year . . . that's how you take the measure of these men."

He steeples his fingers, regarding me thoughtfully. "Taken under consideration," he says.


	4. Three of Swords - Bad Relationships and Necessary Breakups

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the fabulous aibhinn.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine, but I broke Jack so I had to try and fix him.

The silent TARDIS is an uncomfortable place to be. Tomorrow, Jack's arranged to have it transported to the surface, but for now, it's the only place _on_ the _Valiant_ that _isn't_ the _Valiant_. The Doctor and Jack both need that, and Martha won't leave the Doctor.

Life support runs--and the showers, Martha hopes. She hasn't seen enough water to bathe in since she crossed the Channel, and Jack looks--and smells--worse. She's watched him running on auto-pilot--charming, manipulating, and commanding as the situation requires--and somehow, in the midst of it, never forgetting to take care of her family. They're at a UNIT base by now, for debriefing and counseling, and Martha will join them there tomorrow to see them home.

The Doctor stands at the central console, stroking it gently and staring at the damage with those deep, dark eyes that hold a millennium's worth of grief. Jack tentatively touches a coral strut, with a look on his face like he's holding his breath. There's the very faintest of approving thrums from the TARDIS. Jack wraps an arm around the strut, leaning his forehead against it. _This was home for him,_ Martha thinks, _once_.

There's not a mark on either of the men, but they exude woundedness in the same way Martha's family does. Martha doesn't know, yet, all the things that happened aboard the _Valiant_. She's sure some of them will stay forever locked away, same the way the last year has put things in her head she doesn't want to burden anyone with. The Doctor touches a button here and a knob there. Martha lays a hand on his back. "We'll fix her," she says.

"I'm gonna find a shower," Jack says, tiredly.

The Doctor doesn't answer either of them. Grief is like that, sometimes.

***

  
Martha and Tish sit at the kitchen table in their mother's house. Their parents have gone down to the market. Together. "It's still hard for me to believe it," Martha confesses. "I mean, I'm happy for them, of course. But just the idea of them back together blows my mind, let alone their choosing to do something ordinary together, just to be with each other." It's crazy, but of all the things she found on the _Valiant_ after a year, her parents' renewed relationship is the most out-and-out surprising to her.

"And to feel normal," Tish puts in.

"I think we all want that," Martha agrees, smiling faintly.

Tish broods over her tea. "About three months in," she says, "Mum told me she found herself remembering the reasons she'd loved him. By a couple months after that, I think the things that kept them apart just . . . stopped mattering."

Martha studies her sister. All of Tish's bright enthusiasm is gone. Her eyes are dark, now, and possessed of an anger that just smolders for lack of any place to go. "What _does_ matter?" Martha asks. "After a year. What happened up there?"

Tish looks distant. "Always the healer, Martha. What happened to _you_?"

Martha sips her tea. Her family needs her, now more than ever; but she hasn't gone through their ordeal, and they can't fathom hers. "Lots of dying," she says, brusquely, trying to give Tish an understanding, while still using her words as a shield. "Everyone but me, sometimes. I'm so used to being invisible, I'm surprised when I go into a shop and the girl says, 'Can I help you?'"

Tish looks surprised and laughs a little. _Your turn_ , Martha thinks. Her sister sighs, shaking her head. "Some days, nothing awful," she says. "Like we were pets he could ignore if we weren't interesting. He might hit Mum if his coffee wasn't right, or me if he heard I'd talked to Jack too long, but mostly, those days weren't bad. Some days were about bending your Doctor to his whims, and we were just tools for that." Her hands shook, the tea sloshing dangerously toward the rim of her cup. "And some days, he was bored, or angry. Some days, you were just waiting on his wrath, and you had to hope the Doctor could distract him or Jack could draw his attention." She laughed, and it was a ghastly sound. "Most of the time, they could, and if it was Jack, then we got to see just how bad it could have been."

Martha has some idea. She squeezes Tish's hand--the one without the tea--and says, "I've seen death, Tish. You know, when you decide to study medicine, that you'll see death, eventually." Tish has a frustrated look in her eye, but Martha forces her thought forward. "You know, even, that there are times when it's a mercy. But the hardest thing I ever saw . . . " Her voice cracks a little, and she pauses, settling herself. "Someone died for me," she says, evenly, seeing him crumple to the ground again behind her eyes. "No questions, no second chances--he didn't even know what I was really doing. He just ran out and took the one that had my name on it."

Tish looks into her eyes. Martha knows what she sees: someone calm, someone controlled. Someone warm, maybe, but not hot--the flame is locked away behind layers of practicality. Martha Jones has walked through fire, and the world can see it--even if they don't know her name.

It's Tish's turn to squeeze Martha's hand in reassurance. She smiles, then gives a short laugh, with just the faintest hint of hysteria in it. Martha hopes Jack is right--that UNIT's psych people will be able to help her family. Tish says, "The hardest thing for me was watching the Doctor cry over that dead murderer. He saved us all, and he might be a good man--as nine-hundred-year-old aliens go. But he wept over the body like it meant more to him than our entire planet."

Martha puts her cup down. "I know," she agrees. "You said it, Tish: alien. As much as he looks like us . . . as much as he loves us . . . he's _not_ us. The Master was his 'us.' That doesn't make it right, any more than it makes him a bad person. Just . . . alien." She rubs her face, tiredly.

Tish gives her deep, sober eyes. "Too alien to love you?" she asks.

Martha laughs. "Has nothing to do with being alien," she says. _I just came too soon. I can't compete with a ghost--even if she's not really dead._

"You love him, though."

Martha doesn't argue, doesn't try to deny it or put it in some other light. She's been saying the words so long, they'll always be a part of her. She smiles a little. "I can love him all I want," she says, ruefully. "He's still not good for me."


	5. Four of Swords - Rest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: hints of previous non!con. Beta'd by aibhinn.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine, but I broke Jack so I had to try and fix him.

Martha sleeps some nights in her mother's house and some on the TARDIS. Her own flat is beyond repair, and anyway, the Doctor and Jack are both walking wounded, even if they don't admit it. Martha won't leave the Doctor right now any more than she'll leave her family, and until the TARDIS is repaired, she doesn't have to make that choice.

The Doctor's grief remains a quiet, brooding thing that fills the TARDIS with pain and echoes even as she begins to sound better under the patient ministrations of one genius and one mechanic. Jack, on the other hand, is less transparent with his wounds. He runs his mouth to help fill the empty spaces on board. He's never without a crude joke, a cheerful innuendo, or a dirty suggestion. He's so good at it, it distracts her from her own pain and the Doctor's grief; and she never really sees what he's hiding until the day he's absorbed in re-wiring something under the floor and she touches his back to get his attention.

She's had enough near misses in the last year that she dodges fast, and he comes to himself after a split second and pulls the strike, but if either had been any slower, he'd have laid her out on the TARDIS's grating. He laughs it off, saying something about startling old soldiers. But after that, she starts to see the pattern. Jack, who plastered himself to her the first time they met, who hit on blokes while the universe was ending, and who thinks flirting is a contact sport . . . avoids touching anyone. He does it so deftly, she thinks she might be the only one who's noticed. Heaven knows the Doctor hasn't, sunk in his own grief as he is.

Martha's still in the habit, a couple weeks after the world re-set itself, of eating when there's food available and sleeping when she's not doing anything else. Which is how she comes to be in the TARDIS's main corridor in the middle of the night, wandering from the kitchen to the library with an apple in her hand, in time to see Jack slip out of the Doctor's room in a T-shirt and sweats and bare feet. He looks vaguely mused. Martha stands stock-still, and before he can even leer at her, says, "That's the least clothes I've ever seen you wear."

He gives her a lopsided grin. "You should've caught me a hundred fifty years ago," he suggests.

Martha never knows whether to take remarks like that seriously. She takes a bite of her apple and chews slowly, giving herself time to think. The look in Jack's eyes holds a faint challenge, but is mostly deeply weary. They're really not bedroom eyes, not the blown pupils of before or glazed laziness of after. She swallows the mouthful. "I thought she was blond?" she asks.

Jack's grin fades. "She is," he says, softly. And in that broken moment, Martha gets the most awkward feeling that Jack loved Rose, too. "And I didn't just shag the Doctor, more's the pity. Where were you headed?"

It's almost a peace offering, so Martha makes an invitation. "Library. Join me?"

He nods and lets her lead. As she passes him, he steals the apple out of her hand and takes a bite out of it. She's barely opened her mouth to complain before she's holding the remainder of the fruit, and he's never so much as brushed her fingers during the maneuver. She shakes her head and enters the library door. "You don't look tired," she notes as she settles on a convenient sofa.

He sprawls in a chair across from her. "I don't sleep, mostly. Kind of a shame--would've been nice to miss a third of the last year. What about you? Odd time of night to be up."

She shrugs. "My body still thinks it's in a war zone. Sleep when you can . . . which means sometimes, in the middle of the night, it's up and ready to go again." She chews some more apple in silence. Jack Harkness is a very different man in the middle of the night: He doesn't try to fill it. Eventually, she asks, "Is the Doctor sleeping?"

Jack sighs. "Yeah. He wouldn't, not right after everything ended, and he needed to. Still needs to. The old him didn't sleep this much--I don't know if he just needs more than he used to, or if this is what grief looks like in a Time Lord, or if the last year took things out of him that de-aging himself didn't automatically fix. But he hasn't fallen asleep, that I know of, unless I've been there." He shrugs. "I go back after an hour or two, so he's not alone when he wakes up. That way, if he doesn't know where he is, at least he'll know where he _isn't_."

Martha shivers and toys with her apple. "I wish I'd been there." The words slip out of her mouth before she really thinks about them. "I should have been there for him, and you should have been on Earth. You'd have been so much better walking the world, not sleeping . . . "

Jack shakes his head and comes to sit beside her. "No," he says, gently. "The Earth didn't need a military man. It needed a young woman who loved him enough that when she told her story, everyone knew it was true."

Her hand is shaking. She tightens her fingers around the apple and feels its flesh give beneath the pressure. It's been a long time since anything's made Martha Jones shake, and it seems faintly ridiculous that now it's not violence or death or destruction, it's soft words spoken by a hard man in the middle of a comfortable library, while she holds fresh fruit that seems more precious than diamonds. "Is that who I am?" she asks, her voice harsh with some emotion she can't identify. "And how stupid is that? I love him, and he doesn't even see me. I abandoned my family because he asked me to . . . "

Jack takes her in his arms. It's a very deliberate, very careful action, and she imagines him holding the Doctor like this. It breaks through what little remains of her defences. She finds herself cradled against his chest, crying onto his T-shirt as he rocks her like a child. "You didn't abandon them," he murmurs. "You left them in our care. The Doctor and I looked out for them."

"So I helped save the world," Martha gritted. "So what? I had to watch children sliced to ribbons and walk away so the Toclafane wouldn't see me. I helped in field hospitals and watched everyone die anyway because the water was tainted. I hid in a mass grave until nightfall because some of the Master's special enforcers had enough psychic training to see through the perception filter. I had to claw my way out from under the bodies . . . "

There's a gentle hand stroking her hair, and she feels like a little girl for a moment, being held and soothed after a long nightmare. "It had to be done," Jack tells her, and his voice is ancient. "It had to be done, and you were so strong, so strong to be able to do it. And now, you're strong enough to go on. You healed a world, Martha Jones. I believe you can heal _you_."

She's lost the apple, somewhere, and she wishes she could stop sniffling. "But I can't heal _him_ ," she says. "No matter how much I love him. Is he just too broken for that? Can _you_ do it? Could _she_?"

Jack laughs, ruefully. "Sweetheart, I don't think anyone can heal the Doctor right now but himself. Because he won't let anyone in. And that's its own very special kind of stupid."

She's quiet for awhile, soaking up the gentle rocking and the human warmth of him. "He'll let you hold him so he can sleep, but he won't let you in?" she says, eventually.

He snorts. It makes his chest move under her cheek. "I didn't exactly ask, first. It . . . needed to be done."

Martha nods a little, and sits up. Jack lets her pull away. He wipes the tears from under her eyes with a gentle swipe of his thumb. It's such an unconscious gesture that it makes a little lump in Martha's throat. His eyes are still open and deep, and without his usual defences, she can see the age in them. _This man had children,_ she thinks. _And he's buried them._

She looks away, awkwardly, and finds the apple tumbled under the sofa. She rescues it, inspects the lint that's collected on the half-eaten bit, and stands up. "Jack," she says, quietly.

He looks back at her, all Captain Jack the handsome rogue again, and raises an eyebrow.

"Thanks."

He shrugs and smiles. "What are you thanking me for?" he says, cheerfully. "I love an excuse to have a pretty girl in my arms."

She looks down at him, and he's so almost-genuine, she can _almost_ walk away. Maybe it's the doctor in her, that has to look at the wound, or maybe it's the Doctor in her, that has to solve the puzzle; but either way, she can't quite do it. She sighs. "I did what had to be done," she quotes him. He nods at her, seriously. "Tish told me," she says, quietly, "that you did a lot of things that had to be done, too. But she didn't tell me anything that would tell me why you quit touching people."

There's a fine tension in him that wasn't there a moment ago. "No," he agrees, mildly. "And if you're kind, Martha, you won't ask her. The nice thing about not sleeping much is, you don't have nightmares very often. Tish . . . is probably not that lucky. And if you couldn't be there for her then, you can be there for her now: Don't ask."

"But you hold the Doctor while he sleeps," Martha points out. _You held me just now, but it was hard to make that first move. Was it that hard, with him? And did he even notice?_

Jack shrugs, his eyes sliding away from her, even as he smiles. "Love makes us _all_ stupid," he says.

 _He didn't notice._ She looks down at her apple. "I'm going to wash this. Maybe I'll try to go back to bed." Jack nods, and Martha starts for the corridor. She stops in doorway and looks back. "Jack," she says again.

He looks a question at her.

"Who's going to heal _you_?"

He doesn't answer her, and he doesn't look away. She smiles, sadly, and heads back to the kitchen.


	6. Five of Swords - Defeat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: hints of previous non!con. Beta'd by aibhinn.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine, but I broke Jack so I had to try and fix him.

Waking up next to Jack is not like waking up anywhere else in the universe, because Jack isn't like anything else in the universe. It's quite enough to invoke the Doctor's curiosity for .78 of a second before he instinctively checks to see where he is and discovers his own bed in the TARDIS, and remembers.

It's over. It's all over.

He swallows against a grief that's more like pain and pushes it aside, savoring the experience of waking up. He starts with the bed. It's pleasingly soft beneath him, this regeneration having come up all sharp hips and knees and elbows. And it's nothing, _nothing_ like waking up on a hard floor with all his joints aching, no matter how much natural analgesic he tried to flood his body with.

It's almost like adjusting to a new regeneration every time he wakes up, he's been so used to being aged and infirm.

The TARDIS's dim lighting is adjusted to a Gallifreyan standard in this room, and the subtle sounds and smells of the TARDIS are as close as he'll ever come to home again. Even Jack smells familiar, sounds familiar, echoes from a past life telling his subconscious that it's acceptable for this person to be this close, that human heat is comforting. There's the illusion of safety with those arms around him and that faint snore in his ear.

The Doctor blinks and draws his head back just enough to see Jack's eyes. It's the first time he's caught the human asleep since the Master's death. They've spent enough time imprisoned in the same room over the last year that the Doctor knows how rare this is. He finds himself unwilling to wake the immortal, who won't stay unconscious long, anyway. That means not moving, really, because after a hundred forty linear years, Jack still cuddles in his sleep and they're entwined in a way that would look appallingly intimate from the outside.

And Martha says Jack is damaged. That he's stopped touching people. You couldn't prove it to the Doctor's eyes. Or body. He squirms just a little, trying to relieve some of the pressure on his body where it's always a bit interested in pressure right after he wakes up.

Jack startles awake with a gasp and convulsive movement, almost like he's revivifying. He starts to push the Doctor away and aborts the movement partway through. His eyes half-close and he mutters, "Sorry. Didn't mean to doze."

The Doctor very deliberately closes the gap between them again, drawing Jack into his arms in a way he wouldn't have dreamed of two minutes ago and observing Jack's reactions. Widening of the pupils, increased respiration rate, the very slight tension in his muscles before he makes some kind of a choice and holds the Doctor in return. All the tiny signals that were there, if the Doctor had only been paying attention, plus one more that should have set mauve alerts going in his head: Jack Harkness, who leches all over everyone equally, is lying in an ex-lover's embrace without the least trace of arousal.

Sometimes, there's really no benefit to being a genius. Not at all.

"Well," the Doctor says, roughly. "Martha was right."

Jack strokes his back in a way that ought to be casual, but isn't, his eyes focused off in regions of the room that a human's less sensitive vision can't penetrate in this lighting. "About?" he asks.

The Doctor rolls his eyes. "Jack, you are quite possibly the absolute last person I can imagine going into a panic because you've got another just-awake bloke pressed up against your hip."

Jack stifles a quiet laugh. "She tattled on me. Devious, Miss Jones. I like that in a woman."

"There isn't much you _don't_ like in a woman, last I checked," the Doctor says, refusing to be distracted. "Jack . . . are you going to be all right?"

It's the kind of stupid question humans ask when they already know the answer, but the Doctor can't for the life of him think of anything more useful to say. Jack chuckles. "I've got forever, Doctor, isn't that the theory? Forever's enough time to get to 'all right' from just about anywhere."

The Doctor finds himself looking away. "The Swiss representative's daughter?" he surmises, smoothing his thumb along Jack's T-shirt where it covers his spine, a little self-consciously.

Jack half-growls and shifts a little. It's unclear if he's just moving stiff muscles or if it's a bid to make an escape from the questioning. He rolls onto his back, lacing his fingers behind his neck, and stares at the ceiling. "Along with a couple hundred other things, but . . . yeah. I think I'd have hung together better, except for that."

The Doctor debates deliberately getting closer versus sitting up in bed and finally decides on staying where he is. "I'm sorry," he says.

Jack's eyes close, and he frowns. "Don't, Doctor. Just . . . don't. Because _I'm_ not sorry. I make my own decisions; you can't be responsible for me anymore. Just . . . try being responsible for _you_ , for a while. That'd make me happier than a good shag, and there's not a lot that'd make me happier than a good shag right now."

The Doctor sighs. It's one thing to know it, and another to really understand. "I thought you were holding up better than I was."

Jack shrugs and opens his eyes again. "Over a couple hundred years, lots of people have killed me, Doctor. But the Master did what no one else could do. When he let me put myself in the way of that one, he took something from me. Something I really like." The Doctor made a rude noise. Jack chuckled. "One of the few things I never feel guilty about. He ruined it. That reaction's branded on my limbic system now, and I'd do it again, even knowing that. But he broke me, Doc. I may not stay dead, but I'm going to stay broken for a while."

The Doctor stares, silently, because what do you really say to something like that? After a space, Jack turns his head to look at him. "There's that look again," Jack says. "Grief. Responsibility. It gets old, Doctor." The Doctor shrugs. "At least it's not pity." Jack's gaze never used to be this intense, but the Doctor supposes he's had a lot of practice over the last year. "I can't keep you from grieving, but I won't have your pity."

That, more than anything, is an indication of just how broken Jack is. Because until Jack opens his mouth, the Doctor doesn't really think about it like that: in terms of what Jack's lost, not how he's hurt. It starts to color everything, and the Doctor has to reach deep within himself in search of some other emotion. Because Jack needs him, and when his companions need him, the Doctor comes running.

Somewhere, deep inside himself, he finds . . .

Love.


	7. Six of Swords - Small Steps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oozes suggestions of previous non!con. Beta'd by aibhinn, who labeled it, "Sweet and loving and just a little painful to read." Please handle with care. Yes, it's h/c.
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine, but I broke Jack so I had to try and fix him.

The Doctor is nothing if not persistent. Jack recognizes what his friend is doing: A touch to the shoulder here, brushing against him there, making skin contact when they hand each other small objects. Part of him cringes, every time--it's less his limbic system leading on that one and more his bruised dignity--but Jack can't quite bring himself to push the other man away. If Martha's anything to go by, the Doctor isn't in the recent habit of paying attention to his companions at this level: Jack thinks that, in a weird way, it might be something the Doctor needs to do to recover, as much it's also the Doctor trying to help Jack.

Martha notices, the next time she's on board. And she notices him noticing her noticing, and looks away. The part of him that's used to pushing his luck wants to tease her about having given him away--he wants to make her giggle and stammer cutely. But he's pushed his luck to the breaking point in the last year. He just smiles and shrugs it off.

She leaves the TARDIS again that evening. He'd thought she'd stay overnight; he suspects she's solicitously leaving him alone. With the man she loves. The one who doesn't really see her.

Jack and the Doctor end up down in parts of the TARDIS Jack's never seen before, doing a complete overhaul of the charge converters. It's awkward and grimy and involves heavy lifting--which is harder if you're an out-of-practice human who's spent most of a year in chains than if you have the muscle-density of a Time Lord of similar height. Jack's also not entirely sure it has anything to do with repairing the damage caused by the paradox machine, but he has no doubt it needs to be done: The whole area's filthy and things are jammed in place in a way that tells him they haven't been touched in years--maybe decades.

The small silver lining is, the Doctor's abandoned his tie, jacket, and long sleeves, heaving and hauling in nothing but his trousers and vest. Which isn't a bad view, as far as Jack's concerned. Though the Doctor's red trainers may never be red again, he thinks.

When they finish, they're greasy and rank and Jack hurts in all those muscles that just haven't gotten stretched enough in the gym since time re-set. He leans back against an already-grimy wall and slumps. "Shower," he decides. "Then food. Then I'd sleep until I ached less, if I could do that on cue. After all that time holding my arms in the air, you'd think my shoulders would be stronger."

The Doctor doesn't even look tired, which is both unfair and to be expected. He does look like he needs that shower every bit as much as Jack. "Shower, yeah. Rub your back if you want, later."

The offer's a shock, and maybe shouldn't have been; Jack has the sudden feeling he's been set up. "You just want to get your hands on my body," he jokes. It's a reflex: his mouth throwing up protective camouflage while his brain catches up to the situation.

"Caught red-handed," the Doctor says, flippantly. It's the kind of almost-flirtation Jack associates with a leather jacket and a northern accent. Now it comes with the kind of wry grin that says more clearly than words that neither of them is fooling the other.

***

  
How do you seduce an old friend, an ex-lover, someone you've betrayed and relied on and watched suffer beyond belief? Especially when they're all the same man, and he's decided he's given up, for a while. Especially when you've spent a year trapped in aged flesh, and the resumption of a sensible form takes a body that was always under your control and makes it remember youth and springtime and the way it was considered rebelliously acceptable to give in to both in your Academy days?

The small touches were a matter of testing himself as much as they were a refusal to let Jack retreat inside his own skin. The backrub had been a deliberate bid to see how the human reacted. It was . . . strange. Hard to watch Jack twitch tensely under his hands. Easy to banter with him in a way grown unfamiliar. But mostly, strange to be in this body the Doctor's getting used to for the second time, feeling things Time Lords don't expect to be subject to and having to pay far more attention to his heartsrate and hormone production than he really ought, especially while he was trying to remind the primitive parts of a human's biology that some people are harmless, and sometimes, touch is good. The Doctor kept touching long after Jack had--finally--relaxed.

How do you seduce someone who's usually the instigator? Jack knows this dance and seems to regard the whole thing with amused trepidation. He's old enough to know this is a bad idea, but if he had a better one, the Doctor would have heard about it by now.

In the end . . . well, the Doctor knows subtlety's not his strong suit. There's a night Martha's with her family. The Doctor's prepared, he just hasn't made the decision. He's stroking a coral strut and thinking. The console room looks almost normal again, though there's still a bit of internal work to be done. The Doctor's tired; he thinks he'll sleep tonight. Good sense would send him to bed to re-read an Agatha Christie novel, but good sense has nothing to do with this.

Jack's leaning against a nearby section of railing, inspecting his fingernails for any lingering grease. The Doctor walks over and leans beside him. Jack looks up, inquiringly. The Doctor wraps his fingers lightly around Jack's right wrist. Jack fails to react, which, the Doctor thinks, surprises both of them. "You spent a long time in shackles," the Doctor says, thoughtfully.

Jack gives an amused snort. "Yeah, but that used to be my idea of fun. Maybe it balances out."

The Doctor tugs at Jack's wrist and gets raised eyebrows for his trouble. "I'm going to bed," he says. "Coming?"

"Just breathing hard." The joke's old and bad and a matter of pure reflex. They both know the invitation for what it is: the opportunity to hurt each other in the kind of really profound ways that only love allows.

The Doctor straightens up and tugs again. After a moment, Jack does what companions always do when the Doctor grabs them by the hand: He follows.

***

  
It starts with a kiss, which is foolish and painfully familiar/unfamiliar. Jack wants to shrink away from the awkwardness, but he's shared far more intimate moments with the Doctor from across a room in enemy territory and without a word spoken. He forces his body to ease, instead, letting his hands rest low on the Doctor's back while the Time Lord's hover mostly around Jack's shoulders. Jack likes kissing: the give and take involved, the subtle differences of taste and texture between one lover's mouth and another's, the way that power dynamics express themselves in lips and teeth and tongues before they ever find their way into more gymnastic acts.

The Doctor trails long fingers down Jack's spine, ending about halfway down his back. Jack shivers at the touch and knows he's breathing faster, in spite of himself. He draws away from the whipcord-thin man in his arms just enough to speak. "You realize, I'm probably going to unravel a bit at some point," he says, conversationally. "Maybe violently."

"The thought occurred to me," the Doctor agrees. He shifts a little, one of his feet between Jack's, and lets the line of his body press gently up against the other man. Jack feels a tension very different to his own and the more obvious signs of desire. He wonders, for the first time, if the Doctor doesn't need this, too. Time Lords don't, he's been assured, as a rule. But the Doctor never did get on well with rules. "My reflexes are faster than yours. I'll wait for you."

Jack laughs painfully and leans his forehead against the Doctor's. He manages not to shudder as the Doctor's fingers wander over his back. He concentrates on holding still and lets the Doctor slide his braces down his shoulders, breathing in a scent that's familiar and soothing. He pushes away a little and busies himself with the Doctor's buttons, focusing on his fingertips and the fabric beneath his hands. The Doctor's hands slip down to his hips. Jack's breath catches in his throat and he hesitates, then manages to finish with the suit jacket, sliding it off thin shoulders and letting it fall to the floor.

The Doctor leans in again, kissing the vulnerable spot beside the point of his jaw and then biting his neck. The little catch of breath is desire, this time: No one chews on you in violence, and even his traitorous limbic system seems to know it. The Doctor's fingers work the button at Jack's throat and he focuses on the sharp pleasure of teeth, instead. It gets him out of his shirt, and the undershirt follows.

Clothing proves not to be much of a battle, and the Doctor sprawls down on the duvet, cat-like. Jack's still wearing his wriststrap, like a kid with a security blanket. He sits on the edge of the bed. The Doctor looks up at him and raises both eyebrows. Jack shrugs and crawls up beside the other man, taking the opportunity to survey a body he's never had a chance to look at closely. The Doctor's ridiculously thin, but it suits a man who spends his life running one step ahead of the consequences, as if he lives on air and luck.

Jack strokes his hip to watch him react. The Doctor shivers, and Jack begins his investigation in earnest. It's an opportunity he never expected to have, putting his lips and teeth all over this skin, finding the spots that make the too-thin body react and the lips forgo their usual babble in favor of gasps and sighs and little nonsense words. He's almost forgotten his anxiety when the Doctor runs a hand along his flank and over his arse and he . . . freezes, which is probably the best thing; he's not sure anyone humanoid dodges well while flat on his back and half-gone with pleasure.

A frustrated noise escapes Jack. He can't help it. The Doctor opens his mouth and Jack just holds up a hand. The apology all but distends the Doctor's throat as he swallows it back. Jack settles himself over the Time Lord again, trying to ignore the fact that he's more or less lost his erection and enjoy the feeling of the Doctor's pressed hard against his belly. He wraps his arms around the thinner man and rolls them so the Doctor's on top.

The Doctor looks down at him out of deep, brown eyes. Jack licks at his lips to take the frown off his face and then it's Jack's turn to be explored. It's easier this way, being able to see what's coming. He watches down the ever-growing expanse of his body as the Doctor smoothes his hands over flesh and tastes the lines and planes of Jack's chest. A tongue dancing around his nipple makes his eyes flutter closed for a second before he drags them open again, and the cheeky grin on lips he can't see is entirely evident in the Doctor's eyes.

Nails scrape down his skin and a thumb draws circles in the hollow of his hip. He stiffens as dopamine and epinephrine go to war in his body. Dopamine wins as the Doctor licks the head of his cock and looks thoughtful. Jack doesn't quite stifle a laugh, nor the ragged edge of hysteria lurking just around the corner from it. "You _do_ put everything in your mouth in this body," he comments.

"Well, how else am I to know what it's made of?" the Doctor asks. "Not that that applies." He drags long, slow circles around the ridge and then eases the foreskin back with his lips, tongue darting out to taste the fluid beading at the top. Jack groans and loses the battle to keep his eyes open, but that's okay. The world outside his cock shrinks toward nothing, anyway, as the Doctor swallows him down.

Nearly a thousand years of experience, however intermittent, does something for your technique--it's been a long time since Jack's had a blow job this good. It would be easy to come this way, easy to return the favor and get his friend off in similar fashion . . . but some part of his brain is still producing enough anxiety chemicals that he's capable of rational thought on a limited basis. "Not like this," he grits. "Doctor, please . . . "

The Doctor draws away, slowly, with an edge of teeth that proves the other man still knows his body. Unfair advantage, that. Jack swears as cool air assaults hot, damp skin and just breathes for a minute. When he opens his eyes, the Doctor says, "What do you need, Jack?"

Because that's what this is about, after all. Jack needs not to be a prisoner of that year that never happened. And the Doctor needs . . . something. Jack's not sure what. Someone he trusts? Some confidence that he's in full control of his flesh again? Or maybe he just needs to be needed. The man who fixes everything doesn't like problems he can't fix. Jack swallows and tries not to focus on the answer that's always been lurking in the back of his mind. "Move," he says, gently.

The Doctor pulls away. Jack tries for a cheeky grin of his own, but it never makes it to his eyes. "Fancy a shag, Doctor?" he asks, amiably, and rolls onto his belly.

A suspicious silence lingers for a few moments. Jack pulls his knees under him and rests his head on his arms so he doesn't have to see the look on the Doctor's face. He pretends he doesn't feel the hairs on the back of his neck rising. The Doctor shifts on the bed, sitting beside Jack. He rests a hand between Jack's shoulderblades, and Jack tenses, despite his best efforts. The hand begins petting his skin. "You're sure about this?" the Doctor asks.

Jack makes a very conscious effort not to twitch as that touch travels down his spine. His muscles want to ease into the touch, his bloodstream wants him to run away, and his alligator brain wants to roll the Time Lord under him and snog him till his respiratory bypass kicks in. "What's it gonna do--kill me?" he jokes.

The Doctor's touch slips to his right hip and Jack's cringing. "Might do," the Doctor agrees. "Dead of a heart attack in the middle of sex. Not how you ever thought you'd go, I imagine."

Jack wheezes a laugh, goosebumps sown liberally across his skin. "Not since I was a rookie Time Agent, fresh out of training. I think I thought it'd be fabulous, if I made it to a hundred or a hundred and ten." He props himself on one arm and eases the other down to touch himself.

The Doctor sighs and draws away. Jack looks over as the mattress shifts, worried that the Time Lord's changed his mind, but the Doctor's reaching into a drawer of the bedside table--not fumbling at all, Jack notices. He looks away again, teasing himself with short, twisting strokes as he listens to the lube being snapped open and waits. The Doctor works his way up beside Jack. Jack wants this, and he wants not to be afraid of it, but he feels like he's waiting for a blow to fall. "I'm going to touch you, now," the Doctor says, quietly.

Jack makes some kind of approving noise that becomes a gasp and almost, almost a wriggle away as a slick fingertip makes contact with his entrance. He swears under his breath and squeezes his cock. The Doctor waits, just resting his finger there, until Jack's stilled again. He teases at that ring of flesh, doing small circles and gentle passes, pressing just a little and then starting over. Eventually, the sensation of being not-quite-penetrated drives Jack crazy enough that he pushes back against that fingertip. The Doctor gives him just a little, just enough that Jack can tell he's more anxious than he thinks he is, because there's no way a single finger should cause that kind of burn. He takes a deep breath and savors it, consciously tensing and relaxing around the touch.

A Time Lord's body temperature is one of those things Jack's nerve endings have almost forgotten. The Doctor's finger is slick, but nothing will ever make that lube warm as it slips further inside Jack's body. The silver lining to that is, he can't possibly mistake the touch for anything else. Each gentle push eases some of the tension, until the Doctor finally crooks his finger and makes gentle contact with Jack's prostate. Jack has use both arms to hold himself up, then. He gasps and moans a little, letting himself focus on the pleasure of the touch as the Doctor teases his prostate. After awhile, it's not enough. "Doctor," he whispers, pushing back again.

The Doctor pulls his hand away, then starts all over again with two fingers. It seems to take an agonizingly long time for the Doctor to prepare him. Jack writhes and moans and bites at his own arms where he can reach them, wanting and needing and focusing on the pleasure, trying to keep it one step ahead of that lingering, nebulous panic reaction. Trying to remember that this will feel good--he won't allow any other options.

When his balls are tight and his entire body's straining for more, he gasps, "Please! I need . . . "

The fingers slide out of him. One hand rests on Jack's hip, and he manages not to squirm away. He spreads his knees, making room for his friend to kneel. The weight shift on the bed is enough to make his chest tighten and his nerves sing, but he's so turned on it matters less than it would. He concentrates on breathing evenly. "You're sure about this?" the Doctor asks.

Jack pushes back a little, searching, but not finding any contact. "Really sure," he says. The Doctor's weight shifts again, and a cool hand goes around his cock, fondling him lightly and then pulling a couple of times. Jack whimpers with pleasure, and when the Doctor's cock brushes against him and he jerks away, it just sends him into the sweet pressure of that grip, which makes him push back again.

For as long as they spent preparing, it's still on the raw edge of pain as the Doctor enters him. The tightness must not be entirely pleasant for the Doctor, either, because there's a short string of syllables the TARDIS doesn't translate as he waits, just the head of his cock inside Jack's body, for Jack to adjust.

Jack ignores the rapid beating of his heart and the feeling like there's not enough air in the room. It feels good--damn good--after a year to have someone there because he wants it. He twitches his hips as the Doctor strokes his arousal and sighs a little as the impossible pressure eases. "Yes," he says. The Doctor works his way a little farther in and then stops. Draws back and pushes in again: slow, gentle thrusts, each easing its way a little farther into Jack's body. Jack moves a little with them until the other man's balls touch his body. That stops him cold, and suddenly, he can't breathe.

The Doctor strokes Jack's flagging hard-on and babbles nonsense words of encouragement and approval. Jack draws a shuddering breath. They wait like that, just waiting, for a long time. Eventually, Jack says, "Yes," again. "Just . . . slowly."

"Never planned . . . anything else," the Doctor breathes. He moves, then. It's slow, yes, and gentle, and, after a hundred and forty years, so tender Jack feels tears in his eyes. It's not . . . like it used to be, and not just because the last year's left them both wounded. Something's missing: Rose's benediction, maybe. It had always been the three of them, even if only two were loving at the same time. They have to work harder to make it work, with just two, but they manage.

Jack cries out when he comes, and he knows he's weeping. The Doctor's not far behind. They end up flat on the bed, Jack still face-down and the Doctor draped half-over him, but it doesn't feel remotely threatening. Jack feels protected, instead. "Thanks," he says, eventually.

"Mmm," the Doctor manages, by way of a reply. "Did it help any?"

Jack sighs softly, feeling at home in his skin in a way he hasn't in months. "Yeah," he says. And because he can't resist, he asks, "You?"

Jack can feel him startle, everywhere they're touching. After a second, the Doctor laughs. "Yeah," he says. "I think it did."


	8. Seven of Swords - Possibilities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final installment, yay! Big thanks to aibhinn for her marvelous beta-work!
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine, but I broke Jack so I had to try and fix him.

"Found her!" Martha says, triumphantly, as the search results come up on the screen.

Tish gets up and comes to look over her shoulder. "What . . . are you going to do, now that you have?" she asks, cautiously.

"Give her flowers." Martha smiles. She knows she looks a little foolish, but she finds she doesn't care.

Tish gives her a look, like she thinks maybe Martha's finally cracked and she doesn't quite know how to say so. "Martha . . . she doesn't remember."

Martha manages not to laugh. "I know. It's not about her, Tish. I'm doing it for me."

Tish blinks and looks thoughtful.

***

  
Jack controls his laughter until he's far enough across the Plass that Martha and the Doctor can't hear him. He wonders how long it will take them to figure out he was yanking their chain.

Longer for being apart, Jack thinks. It'll be hard for the Doctor, being alone, but Martha has to be self-protective. As for Jack . . . it'll be hard enough on the Doctor and on him, dragging the weight of that year behind them separately. Together, they'd just keep reminding each other of the bad times.

Some things are best forgotten.

But there's so much ahead of him. He's leaving that blue box for the second time, yet instead of feeling what he's losing, all he can see is what's waiting for him. Strong-willed Gwen, who's almost worse at running her personal life than Jack is. Passionate Owen, who's trying to remember how to care. Brilliant Toshiko, who just needs a little more confidence. And competent, crafty Ianto, whose youth and occasional naiveté hide depths Jack is only beginning to fathom.

He's three thousand years in his own past, and he has so much future ahead of him. He's looking forward to it, for a change.

***

  
The Swiss representative's daughter tells her father she's going out with her friends. He's sure this is another excuse to show off new clothes. She seemed to have her growth spurt overnight, going from a beautiful child to a lovely young woman and finding her trousers too short and her shirts too tight in the process. Not that she's complaining about a new wardrobe.

He's taken a year of her life, and she'll never know it. It's given her back the joy and innocence that were stolen from her aboard the _Valiant_. The 372 days she won't miss until the end of her years are a small price to pay, and a choice he had no qualms about making.

He would have forgotten, too, in a perfect world. He saw things during that year that will give him nightmares for the rest of his life. But debts go unpaid if they're forgotten, and history too often repeats itself if no one remembers the terrible parts. He let his daughter forget, but it's not a relief he can choose for himself.

The Swiss representative smiles at her. He asks her if she's got her mobile on her and reminds her she should call him if it starts getting late.

She raises her eyes heavenward. "Yes, Papa," she says, already on her way out the door.


End file.
